Motherhood..."That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger..." (umm...right?!)

Monday, 15 October 2007

The 'Poo-ey Poulet'

It's been awhile since i've had a chance to write. Things are kicking off for the 'Abou-John's' round here and our days are being spent trying to find builders to do renovations on two flats, trying to find tenants for one of our flats, trying to help plan a wedding for sister Mo, trying to buy a new home, plus planning for three upcoming birthdays in the next month....URGHHH!

So you see, it was rather a surprise to find that despite all this we managed to have a pleasant-enough weekend. Yesterday we basked in the green green grass on Wandsworth Common under hot sun in our t-shirts, lying around with friends of ours who have 2 year old twins. Egg was in his element and even Dumps enjoyed himself - helping himself to their oatcakes when they weren't looking and refusing to give up the little box of filter tips he found after routing around in our friends handbag.

The day before we treated ourselves to a lunch at a pizza place in Kennington. That was nice (thank you very much mr. nice bottle of red wine) until our 10 month old dove over and out of his highchair - narrowly avoiding cracking his head open by landing strategically on his left shoulder. That was fun. And don't forget the sobbing which preceeded that when Dumps over-enthusiastically knocked over Eggie's 'baby cappucino'....ah, these are the days.

Bad parenting aside, my husband came up with a verbal stroke of genius (and provided much amusement for the rest of the weekend) when he coined Dumps 'The Poo-ey Poulet' early Saturday morning. When sung to an old melodic 'They Might Be Giants' song entitled "Triangle Man" the lyrical possibilities are endless and we had probably too much fun making up lines. The fact is, our chubby chicken was desperately in need of a new moniker and 'Poulet' gives a friendly nod to our neighbours on the continent whilst aptly describing the body shape of our youngest.

Speaking of 'Poo-ey Poulet's', this morning i traded a rather fiercesome nappy change for a ten minute back massage. Judging by the smell it was well worth it on my part and I sent my husband on his way to work with a looser neck but somewhat squiffier right hand...oh well.

On Friday I went in for a brief 'parent teacher' meeting with Egg's nursery teacher - a rather portly, young, stern, brunette Swedish lass. She informed me that she was pleased with Egg's progress and that he had learned to share. She said that he has an amazing imagination (developed from trying to hatch escape fantasies from his rather dysfunctional living-on -top-of-each-other inner city home life??...) and along with his little friend 'Abdul' he likes to spend ages in the play kitchen cleaning dishes and whipping up feasts for the other children. Hmmm....wonder where he gets that from? She also said that he likes to question authority (now i KNOW where he gets that from!) and though polite, often asks, 'why do i have to clean that up?' when spilling yet another milk carton.

I'm currently writing on a large wooden table in the cafe section of the 'Young Vic', listening to great old French music, sipping an overpriced and lukewarm cappucino, and preparing to pack up in a few moments and go and collect Egg from Nursery. Next week is 'half-term break' and he's off school until the following teusday....HELP! I've grown so accustomed to these few hours in the morning when i roam the streets with my crusty-oatmeal-mouthed infant and daydream my life away until it's time to pick up L'Oeuf. Then it's home for the usual 'cheese and pickle sandwich' followed by an hour or so of destroying our newly clean home (courtesy of Memory Zulu who as we speak is trying pointlessly to right the wrong which is our flat), and then it's 'scream-nap-time' whereby a half hour of blood-curdling yells is followed by an hour or so of peace while both babies nap.

This of course is broken immediately when the phone rings....which it inevitably does...and I want to murder whoever it is on the other end (usually some innocent Indian lass at a call centre in Bangalore who is quizzical as to why I am damning her and her ancestors to hell for simply enquiring as to whether I might be interested in a good rate loan....). Life is hard.

Post a Comment

SUBSCRIBE to www.moaningmum.com

Search This Blog

ABOUT ME...

I am a well-intentioned but frequently disillusioned wife and mother, cathartically blogging about the daily frustrations of raising three(!) boys (Egg 12, Dumpie 10, and Squitty 'the baby' 5...) whilst trying to forge a career in music.
As a frustrated artist, domestic slave, and hardcore fashionista , life is a constant struggle of trying not to lose the plot whilst keeping a sense of self.
Throw in a husband who also refuses to "grow up", wonderfully dysfunctional family and friends, and you get a shambolic household that shouldn't work - but somehow does.
These domestic adventures and random observations of the world at large (fueled in part by excessive daily intake of chocolate and caffeine) are contained herein. Welcome to my world...